


Cafe Society

by Rozel



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rozel/pseuds/Rozel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An older lads story with a damaged Doyle</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cafe Society

**Author's Note:**

> This one is set around where I used to live. The London Yellow Brick is still available today although it costs a bomb! The young Asian character existed and owne an upmarket restaurant on the Greenwich one way system. Also what goes around comes around - the Seamen's Hospital is part of the University of Greenwich where I'll be in September in my final year.
> 
> Grateful thanks to the knowledgeable Karen who guided me through the medical bits

Usual Disclaimer  
I don’t own the characters of Bodie and Doyle, or any others from the TV series. They belong to Mark One Productions and Brian Clemens.  
I borrow them to write fiction for my own (and hopefully your) pleasure, with no financial gain to myself or anyone else.

CAFE SOCIETY

June 1990

The black car stopped quietly by the river bank. A uniformed driver got out of the car smartly and opened the back door. 

Bodie got out and walked swiftly around the other side of the car, where he opened the door and reached in.

“I’m OK. I can get out meself.”

Doyle put one leg on the path, hitched and pulled himself to a stand using the headrest and the door frame. Once upright he gently lifted his other leg over the lip of the foot well, wincing slightly as he did so. Bodie stood there, hovering ‘just in case’. Doyle turned gingerly and reached inside the car for his walking stick. Once sorted, he stood tall, and tested his injured leg, before grinning at Bodie.

“There. Another step forward. ‘Scuse the pun. Now what do you want me to see?”

“This,” replied Bodie, sweeping his arm grandly.

“Yeah. It’s a river,” said Doyle. “Very nice too. It’s called the Thames,” he added sarkily.

Bodie looked vexed.

“Not that you berk . . . this!” He pointed towards a small warehouse sitting just back from the river wall.

Doyle turned gently. The building was bathed in the morning sun; its London Yellow brick looked warm and inviting. Doyle noted that while it may have once been a bustling warehouse, the building was strangely quiet. It looked . . . new-ish, except it wasn’t. The docks had been busy once, but were now deserted. The buildings, however, remained.

“We drove all this way to look at a warehouse! Lovely colour brick!”

Bodie, who was getting a little irritated at Doyle’s stating the obvious, began to walk towards the door. Doyle, followed him, slowly and carefully.

Bodie held the door open for his partner and they both entered the building. It was cool and classy – marble floors and expensive plants dotted the area. A doorman sat behind a desk. He touched the peak of his cap as the two men entered.

“The keys to the penthouse apartment sir,” he said, handing them to Bodie.

Two lifts both with their doors closed stood next to a wide staircase. Bodie walked to one of the lifts and using the key, opened the door motioning for Doyle to get in. Once aboard, Bodie pressed the button for the third floor, and the lift silently rose upwards.

With the very faintest ‘ping’ it stopped, and the doors opened directly into an apartment. The men stepped out into a long living room, which ran the length of the building. The wall facing the Thames was made entirely of glass, creating a large area of light and space. Sliding doors opened on to a balcony. There was a well-appointed open plan kitchen at one end of the property. 

Doyle stood there, just staring. The view was amazing; across the river was a park and a small marina. The Thames sparkled and flowed steadily seawards. A couple of medium sized ships edged their way down river, accompanied by small fussy tugs. A smart motor launch headed towards St Catherine’s Basin. The Greenwich pleasure boats were filling up with tourists. 

“Why did you bring me here?” asked Doyle.

“Later,” replied his friend. “Come and see the rest of the place.”

He gently steered Doyle towards the back of the apartment, where two large bedrooms, each with an ensuite bathroom faced out onto the deserted Seamen’s Hospital. Although it was now closed, the majestic buildings remained and the grounds were well kept.

They walked through the rest of the apartment. The views, the spaciousness and the expensive finish to the apartment were clear to see. Eventually, they made their way back to the lift. Doyle was visibly tiring now, and leant heavily on his stick.

“C’mon mate. Let’s get you sat down. There’s a nice pub up on Blackheath. We can sit outside.”

Doyle allowed himself to be shepherded back into the car. Bodie got in beside him and the vehicle turned out of the street and made its way up the hill.

 

A few minutes later, the big car drew up outside a pub bordering the heath. The driver waited while his employers got out. Bodie tapped on the window.  
“Give us a couple of hours Tom, and then pick us up.”

Doyle began to protest.

“We can get the train back. I’ll take it slowly . . . it’ll be alright.”

Bodie held up his hand.

“The car is a perk of the job Doyle, and a pretty useful one. Tom will come by in a couple of hours and we’ll get taken back to the office. No arguing.”

He waved the driver away, and held the pub door open for his friend. Doyle walked slowly through the corridor and out into the beer garden.

Doyle sat quietly outside while Bodie ordered food and drinks. The lunch time crowd ate hurriedly inside the pub, rushing through sandwiches and wine or beer before going back to their various offices. 

The sun was hot, but Doyle had elected to sit under a spreading tree at the back of the garden. He was glad of the shade. His head ached, and he realised there was still a long road ahead before he recouped his energy levels.

Bodie appeared carrying two glasses of wine.

“Food’ll be about ten minutes. Goats cheese and grape baguette for you, and I’m having a sausage and pickle.”

Doyle smiled his thanks. Bodie sat down, and began to talk.

“The reason I wanted you to see that place is that I’m planning on moving. I’ve had enough of departmental flats – joyless and tatty places. I read in the paper recently that developers were buying up riverside properties and turning them into flats. That one is what they call a loft – gettin’ very Americanised aren’t we. But it fits the bill, Ray. Did you like it?”

Doyle sat very still. He’d no idea Bodie planned to move. He’d not mentioned anything at all in conversation: but then circumstances had changed so much over the past few years, he sometimes wondered why Bodie put up with him still. He could remember with total clarity when it all gone wrong.

Following the dreadful accident in April 1984, Doyle had lain in hospital thinking. He reached the obvious conclusion that things would change. He’d been lucky not to lose his limb. His leg, broken in several places had put paid to his job at CI5. Several operations and with enough metal in his leg to build a small car, it had taken two years to get to the stage where he could walk any distance again. Although the prognosis was good IF he took it slow and steady, he would never again attain the fitness level required for his role as an agent.

He’d spent months in the private clinic, dark days he could barely remember, where he sank into a deep, soul destroying depression. He developed a severe infection from the pin sites on the cage that surrounded his injured leg. He saw little point in trying to get better. Whenever he made the effort to rise above the twilight sleep he inhabited, he noticed Bodie sitting there quietly, his very presence giving Doyle a strength he only recognised he needed when occasionally his partner was absent.

Ironically, Doyle had been thinking about his future – at the time of the accident he was thirty nine and knew his days in the field were numbered. But he’d wanted to choose the time of his departure, not leave it to some drunken fool in a BMW.

It had been Cowley who’d thrown him a lifeline. Some straight talking and a fresh perspective had made him realise that he’d too much to offer to chuck it in. So, very slowly and patiently, he’d begun to read reports, policies and endless files. Every waking moment was crammed with physiotherapy and exercises in an attempt to get fit. Progress had been slow, and it wasn’t until Brian Macklin had walked in one morning with a cheery expression and a ‘plan’ that Doyle felt he might actually make it. After the exercises he’d returned to his room, taken his painkillers and begun to learn about the running of CI5, the machinations of government and, as Cowley put it ‘how to win friends and influence people’. Cowley wanted Doyle to be the heartbeat of CI5, and have the skills to bridge the gap between the unpalatable actions CI5 often had to employ, and the hand wringing that went on in Whitehall. He would become Alpha Two.

In April 1986, after two years of hospitals, clinics and convalescent homes, he was discharged. Fearful of living alone , but too proud to ask for help, he’d struggled along for a week before falling over, and unable to get up in his weakened state, just lay there alternately swearing at his leg and sobbing with the pain. Bodie, who’d taken to calling in daily, found him late in the evening.

What followed took both men by surprise. Bodie had swept up his friend in his arms and ever so gently laid him on the sofa. He’d run a bath, and lifted Doyle into the warm water, soaped and washed him, saying nothing when he saw the mangled leg, thin and scarred with the muscle almost completely wasted. He then lifted Doyle from the bath, before drying him and putting him to bed. A quick call to the local Chinese takeaway brought a veritable feast which both men ate hungrily. Then Bodie had simply taken off his clothes and climbed in bed next to his friend.

He did nothing except hold Doyle all night. And the next night, and again, until Doyle could barely remember a time when Bodie’s physical presence hadn’t been next to him, warm and solid.

They become lovers some while later. Doyle, always confident with his own bisexuality, was amazed at Bodie’s actions. The ex-soldier never explained the whys and wherefores of his decision to make love to his partner, but it was clear it was a choice he’d reached and was happy with. Doyle also noted that Bodie was experienced in such ways.

Bodie had also come ‘off the streets’ as he put it, citing his age and his desire to look after Doyle. Once again Cowley had found a niche for his agent, and Bodie now aged forty one, followed Doyle into a management role, and was given the designation Alpha Three. 

Cowley was possibly the most astute man Bodie and Doyle had ever known. He saw the shift in their relationship as a positive force, and one that would add dimensions to each man’s character. He was also a lot more broadminded than he appeared. After Bodie had found Doyle that night, on the floor, Cowley suggested they shared a house in Regents Park, rented from CI5. Cowley signed the papers, sanctioning the move and brooked no argument from the Ministry over the ‘situation’ at all. 

 

Doyle’s reverie was interrupted by the arrival of their food, and Bodie gently shaking his arm. His blue eyes held a worried look.

“Ray, Ray . . . you OK mate.”

Doyle shook his head, clearing his mind.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Bit of a shock about the house-hunting. Still I guess it’s not been much fun for you. I never thought I’d end up like this, and you’ve been a godsend the past few years. Maybe it’s time I stood on my own two feet.” His eyes betrayed his words. 

Bodie realised in a heartbeat what had happened. Without caring if anyone saw, he took Doyle’s face in his hands and kissed him, gently tracing the outline of Doyle’s mouth with his tongue. Doyle’s arms encircled his neck, and he rested his head on Bodie’s shoulder.

“Silly sod,” whispered Bodie. “Did you think I was going to leave you? That flat is for us, Doyle. I’ve been looking for ages. That place at Regents Park is completely unsuitable. We don’t need a big house Ray! It would do better being renovated into flats for the other staff. It’s cold, and I noticed some damp coming through. The bedrooms are on the third floor. I can hear you some nights trying to climb the stairs – it breaks my heart. It’s too big for us, the layout is all wrong.”

He slipped a finger under Doyle’s chin, and lifted his face level.

“That place has a lift directly into the flat – it’s all on one level. It’s smaller – much better for us. We need a home that’s gonna work for us, cranky legs an’ all.

The relief on Doyle’s face was heart-breaking. He knew he was completely different to the man of a few years ago. The accident had done far more than break his body. It had robbed him of his confidence and his dignity. However, through his own determination and Bodie’s cajoling, threats and sheer strength of will, all was on the mend.

They ate lunch quietly, putting forward ideas about the flat. Doyle was worried about the price: they both had money saved, but the new flat was far more expensive than they could afford. Bodie placed a finger on his partner’s lips.

“Taken care of mate. Being a merc was extremely well paid, and Joe Robbins taught me the value of investing.” Robbins was almost a god like figure from Bodie’s past.

“I’ve no eye for making a house a home Doyle. You’re the artistic one, so I’ll leave it up to you to do.”

“Christ, we’ll be looking at chintz and curtains next,” grumbled Doyle. He never mentioned he’d already decided on blue for their bedroom.

The move went well, and fairly soon the partners were ensconced in their new home. Bodie had been spot on in his assessment of Doyle’s needs. The layout and open plan aspect gave Doyle a freedom to move that caused him little discomfort. It was warm in winter and cool in the summer; the views, the sunrises and the sunsets provided an ever changing panorama for the men to watch. Evenings were spent sitting on the balcony talking, relaxing and enjoying each other’s company.

 

As the years passed, they grew even closer. It was as if they were making up for lost time – both had played the field in their youth, bedding many women; but they were always happiest together.

“Dunno why we didn’t do this years ago,” said Doyle one evening. They were lying in bed, arms entwined.

“Never thought I was your type,” came the muffled reply. Bodie was busy nuzzling Doyle’s collarbone.

“Seriously,” Doyle pushed himself up on one elbow. “Why? What made you climb into bed with me that night? I was a complete mess. If my memory serves,” he wrinkled his brow in thought, “I’d been lying on the floor for ages, I’d thrown up and was about to give up completely. I wasn’t a pretty sight.”

Bodie sighed. Doyle in a reflective mood could be hard work, and all he wanted to do was slip down Doyle’s body, and take his partner’s cock in his hand. Just thinking about Doyle’s reaction to such an action made Bodie’s own manhood harden against his partner’s thigh.

“That’s another thing,” said Doyle, noting the burgeoning organ as it nudged him. “Where did you learn some of those tricks? I hadn’t the slightest idea you had such a large repertoire.”

Bodie gave up. He knew Doyle too well, and unless he talked it through with the other man, neither of them would get the release he had planned for them.

“I’d known since the day you walked into CI5 that I wanted you. I held back though; it was several things really. The squad was new – in formation and practice. I’d known Cowley for a while and respected what he was trying to do. I thought if I suddenly jumped your bones, it would reflect badly all round. I’d found out in Africa that I preferred men – Joe Robbins showed me more than how to invest money and clean a gun . . .” Bodie went very quiet, “Joe was the only bloke apart from you, I’ve ever loved.”

Doyle kissed his lover gently.

“When I joined the squad, it was pretty clear that they were a fairly testosterone filled bunch. Anson hated pooftahs and made it clear. I could have punched him sometimes. Murph, Jax, MacCabe, all red blooded males. I played the game Doyle – I’m pretty good at satisfying women, and then you walked in and I knew I would give everything up in a second just to have you.”

Doyle said nothing but stroked Bodie’s hair. Then he snuggled down against the bigger man and sighed contentedly as Bodie began his interrupted ministrations.

 

Greenwich suited them well. The flat was a haven for friends and family. Murph was a constant visitor, as was McCabe. Even Brian Macklin, and his beautiful Chinese wife had dinner a couple of times a year with them. They were within easy reach of their HQ, yet far enough away to enjoy the culture and social life that sprang up in the area. Although not Londoners by birth, they embraced the cafe society of the area, and could often be found at the weekends outside one of the many pavement cafes or bars. Often they sat watching the tourists and locals scour the market for bargains, or just relax by the river, as the river traffic plied up and down the Thames. 

Bodie learnt to unwind, to stop constantly reviewing the situation for potential threats. He was amazed at Doyle’s easy grace and how he’d been accepted by the local community.  
“That’s ‘cos they see an old guy with a stick. I’m harmless,” said Doyle, waving at two pretty young women. 

“Lisa and Jasmine,” he announced to Bodie. “Run the vintage dress shop.” He waved again at a young Oriental man who called back at him.

“Yo Doyle. How’s it going man?”

Doyle called back.

“’S good thanks Tony. We’ll be in for dinner tonight.”

Tony gave him the thumbs up.

“Drinks on the house Doyle. I’ll book the table myself.” He carried on walking through the market.

Bodie looked affectionately at his partner.

“You glad we moved here?” he asked.

Doyle looked at him.

“Oh yes love, we’ve settled in well. Cowley knew we would, of course. Glad he’s settled into retirement. I hear he’s married Lady Draper. Been friends with her for years, and when her other half died, they grew closer.”

Bodie’s slack jawed expression elicited a peal of laughter from Doyle. 

“Phoned Betty last week. For a gossip,” he added.

 

However, by 2000, both men had retired from CI5. Doyle had never regained full use of his leg, and in time found sitting in on the interminable meetings, and late nights behind a cramped desk often left him irascible with pain and discomfort. He took retirement of grounds of ill health. 

Over the years, CI5 had changed, grown and diversified. Bodie had overseen much of the work of the restructure. With Doyle smoothing the way within the echelons of power, the new agency, CI5 really in name only, took over with its wider remit. Bodie admitted he felt like a dinosaur, as the bright young things with their degrees in computer science, languages and politics moved in. Once the agency was fully functioning, Bodie decided to leave.

For a couple of months he lounged around their flat, trying to persuade himself he was enjoying retirement. Eventually, Doyle, feeling he’d inherited a fractious three year old, suggested Bodie used his talents to start his own business. 

Using his contacts and his well invested funds, Bodie became a consultant advising on training and weaponry for the uniformed services. He applied his own ethics to his company, remembering the wise words of Joe Robbins about staying true to himself.

Doyle turned his hand to managing the business side of Bodie’s company, and then surprised himself by returning to his artistic roots. 

“I’ve rented a shop site in Greenwich Market,” he announced one morning. Bodie’s fork stopped in mid-air between his plate and his mouth.

“You’ve what?” he said

“I’ve got a shop. Gonna paint, sell art and have a gallery for local talent. Three days doin’ your stuff, two days doin’ mine, weekends if I feel like it!”

Bodie chewed his sausage thoughtfully.

“Could work I s’pose. Won’t overdo it will you?”

Doyle smiled.

“You’re like a hen with one chick. It’s been years since the accident. If I take it slowly I’ll be fine. Anyway, I’ve got me stick.” Doyle flourished an elegant black cane complete with a snake handle finely crafted in silver. It had been a present from Bodie for Doyle’s fiftieth birthday.

“Just be careful. Pace yourself. If it gets too much tell me. Don’t want you knackered and worn out.”  
Doyle gave an evil cackle.

“Why? Doesn’t the idea of me restin’ in bed after a hard day’s graft appeal to you?”

Bodie took a long appraising look at Doyle. The rough deal life dealt Ray had been tempered with the graceful way he’d aged. His green eyes shone behind small half-moon glasses, and the curly hair was still thick but now silvered. Apart from the limp and a bit more meat on his bones, he’d hardly changed. Doyle still hadn’t mastered the art of buttons, and his shirt had its usual quota undone. A silver chain nestled among Doyle’s chest hair. And, Bodie noted, his partner still had the most sinful mouth he’d ever encountered. He spoke, his voice, thick with emotion 

“You in bed at any time appeals to me sunshine. Just at your age you need to take things easy.”

“Long and slow,” agreed Doyle, stealing a quick look at his watch. “What time d’you have to get to work today?”

Bodie smiled.


End file.
